


on the tarmac

by remremy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 12:24:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8532991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remremy/pseuds/remremy
Summary: l'espirit de escalier (french) - the feeling after leaving a conversation and you can't help but think about all the things you should have said.





	

"John there's... Something I've meant to say; that I've always meant to say and i never have..."

Sherlock pauses, taking in John's face, seeing the confusion, the sadness, and... hope? He shakes himself mentally; John is married to Mary, he loves Mary, not Sherlock. He takes a steadying breath and starts again. "Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again I might as well say it now." He stares at the ground for a second, gathering up courage to say It. He's been silent for _years_ , and he is going to die anyway, but he has to say it.

But John, John would feel guilty about it- wouldn't he?- or he'll think of him differently, with disgust- _I'm not his date, I am not gay_ \- , and the courage that he's just managed to gather seeps away, leaving him cowardly and cold. He goes with the first thing that comes to mind to take the serious edge off; just to see John smile again, smile because of _him_ , which is:

"Sherlock is actually a girl's name." 

The joke pays off, and John chuckles a bit, and Sherlock smiles at him, small and tender, horribly infatuated, and he would normally berate himself for letting so much show on his face but _this_ , this is the _last time_ that Sherlock's _ever_ going to see this, so he goes easy on himself, storing it away into his mind palace to be examined on this flight to his death, to be remembered and _treasured_. 

"No its not," John says, bringing Sherlock back to the matter at hand- he's leaving London, he's leaving _John_ for _good_ \- and Sherlock bites back the sting of tears that he feels heating behind his eyes. 

"It was worth a try," he shrugs, to keep this going, to postpone the inevitable, to distract himself from having to _leave John forever __, to-_

"We're not naming our daughter after you," John replies. 

"Oh, I think it could work," Sherlock murmurs quietly, and John turns and smiles at him. Sherlock returns it- or tries to at least- only managing a small smile that fades almost as soon as it appears. _Sherlock Watson, I think it could work_. 

Sherlock slips his glove off, the hairs on his hand standing on end at the sudden contact with the cold English air, the feeling heightened by the drugs coursing through his system, and he can feel the tension, too, the _is this all? You're leaving who-knows how long and we're going to_ shake hands?, radiating from John's frame, and John's left fist clenches at his side. 

"To the very best of times, John," he says quietly, and John looks to the side for a second before looking him in the face and grabbing Sherlock's hand firmly, shaking it once firmly and then just holding it. 

John's palm is small and warm against Sherlock's larger one, compact and strong, just like the army doctor, this conductor of light, attached to it. They hold each others' stare for a few seconds, hands rocking back and forth a bit between them. Sherlock then shakes their hands once more, up then down, before letting go and turning his back. He walks away, resisting the pull to turn around, to take John into his arms, damn the consequences. But he ignores all of the voices and steps onto the plane, ducking inside and taking his seat. 

He forces himself to buckle his seat belt before looking back at John. He stands upright beside Mary, the contrasting colors of red and black, and something in Sherlock's stomach twists at the sight of their hands entwined. He sits back, putting the two of them out of sight, and the plane takes off as his stomach drops, and not just from the plane's movements. 

A few minutes later- his sense of time is slipping, the drugs finally kicking in- one of the flight attendant steps in front of him with a phone in hand. 

"Sir," the man says. Sherlock looks away from the window as he continues. "It's your brother." He resists the temptation to roll his eyes- Mycroft wont even leave him alone while he's trying to die- and takes the phone. 

"Mycroft." 

"Hello, little brother. How's the exile going?" Mycroft responds. 

"I've only been gone four minutes," he said. 

"Well I certainly hope you've learned your lesson." Sherlock can hear the fake smile he's wearing as he says it and rolls his eyes. "As it turns out, you're needed." 

"Oh for god's sake, make up your mind," he grouches. Then, interested at the prospect of going home continues with, "Who needs me this time?" 

Mycroft pauses, and Sherlock can hear a faint voice, abnormally high, in the background during his silence. "England." 

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first work and i dont really know what im doing ajsdhkjhdk so pls be kind anyway Bye thx for reading !


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